


Truth

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers: Infinity War, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Compliant, Stranded, Trapped on an island
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-23 14:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19702918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: “I told you the Bermuda Triangle is real.”“The Bermuda Triangle is not real.”But Tony has to admit that argument would have a lot more force if they hadn’t just crash-landed on a mystery island for no apparent reason.





	Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this treat! 
> 
> This is _Endgame_ , what _Endgame_? Just take it as a given that IW was resolved in a manner that involved a lot less time passing and Tony not dying. Also, obviously, not FFH compliant either.
> 
> CNTW because at this point I’m hopelessly lost on how old Peter is supposed to be. This takes place the spring of his senior year. He’s whatever age you want him to be given that information.

“I told you the Bermuda Triangle is real.”

“The Bermuda Triangle is not real.”

But Tony has to admit that argument would have a lot more force if they hadn’t just crash-landed on a mystery island for no apparent reason.

All he wanted to do was give the kid a nice early graduation gift, spring break in the Bahamas, and this is what it gets him. Fine, universe. He gets the message. No more doing nice things.

Or maybe the message is more specific: no more doing nice things for the teenager he really, really wants to do some not-so-nice things to. Of all the ways he thought this trip was a bad idea, tempting fate, this was not one of the problems he’d prepared for.

Now that the initial shock has worn off, he’s able to assess the situation. What remains of his private jet is hopeless: wings split, hull crushed, hole in the side, on-board nav completely shot through, so dead there’s not even a flicker when he tries to turn it on. The radio turns up nothing but static. He can’t connect to F.R.I.D.A.Y., either, which is the thing that really makes panic set in, because that’s definitely not supposed to happen. After everything with Thanos, he’d upped her range; she should be able to come with him almost anywhere. Definitely anywhere on Earth.

Peter doesn’t even have his suit, so he can’t try connecting to Karen.

“It’s a vacation, kid,” Tony said when Peter had asked about bringing it. “ _Your_ vacation. If any big, bad tourists try to hurt us, I’ve got it covered.”

He’s an idiot. That’s all there is to say about that.

They explore their surroundings, which turn out to be deep jungle. Trees loom high and dense, blocking out any light. There’s water everywhere, clinging to the bark, dripping from leaves, misting through the air. After only a few minutes outside, Tony feels damp and cold. Mosquitos buzz around them; somewhere in the distance a bird keeps crying out, a cackling, shrill sound.

“Not exactly the beachfront resort I had in mind,” Tony comments as they circle the plane, cataloguing the damage.

“Yeah, but this feels much more in character.” Peter’s smile is strained around the edges. As they keep walking, Tony notices he’s favoring his left side.

“Whoa there,” he says, grabbing his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Define okay.” Peter lifts his shirt—one of those silly science pun ones, fraying at the collar, as if Tony hasn’t offered to revamp his wardrobe multiple times—revealing deep purple and green splotches spreading across his chest and stomach. “I think I broke a rib or two?”

“That is definitely outside the definition of ‘okay,’” Tony informs him. He snaps his fingers, gesturing at the plane. “You, back inside. You’re sitting down.”

“What? No, I don’t need to.” Peter protests. “It’s fine, I’ve fought robbers with worse injuries than this.”

Of course he has. This kid is going to kill him. “Don’t tell me things like that, Parker, you’re going to give me an aneurysm. Back inside, now.”

“Fine. But only because there’s not really anything to see out here, anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony agrees, planting his hand between Peter’s shoulder blades to keep him on course. “I get it, you’re very independent. Doesn’t mean you have to be dumb.”

***

It seems like the best course of action is for Tony to fly over the ocean until his comms kick back in and he can instruct F.R.I.D.A.Y. to send help. Simple, right? Foolproof plan, up until the moment the suit shorts out above the tree line and he’s sent hurtling back to the ground at oh-god-this-is-going-to-hurt speeds.

The good news is the trees break his fall. Combine that with the safety mechanism in the suit and he manages to hit the ground with nothing broken. The bad news is nothing being broken doesn’t stop his entire body from turning into a giant bruise; he only makes it back to the jet because Peter rushes to help, strong arms pulling him to his feet and practically dragging him through the forest.

The worse news is, he’s pretty sure the Bermuda Triangle is real.

***

The even worse news, he realizes about five minutes later, is he’s having a hard time staying conscious. One second he’s sitting, woozy but awake, in the smoldering remains of the pilot’s chair, Peter fussing over him; the next, he’s flopping to the ground as the world goes dark and Peter yells, “Mr. Stark!” 

***

He wakes up in one of the jet’s comfortable passenger chairs, a pillow stuffed under his head and a blanket covering his body. Apparently Peter went exploring through the plane’s supply closet. Tony couldn’t even tell you where that is.

He pushes himself out of the chair. Every movement is painful, revealing a new bruise or strain, some in places he didn’t even know could get bruises. But he refuses to groan. Refuses to sit back down, either. Last he checked, he wasn’t the only one on this plane who’s injured, and he’s not about to have Peter take care of him. That’s against the natural order of things.

He staggers to the cockpit, where he finds Peter on the ground, surrounded by radio parts.

“Why have you taken my radio apart?” he asks, leaning lightly against the wall in a way he hopes comes off as nonchalant rather than desperately in need of the support.

Peter is on his feet immediately. “Mr. Stark! When did you wake up? Why are you walking around? You should be resting.” He grabs Tony by the shoulders and guides him, against his protests, to the pilot’s seat. The problem with Peter is he’s literally too strong to resist; he doesn’t use that often, outside of fights, but he does now, pushing Tony into the chair and telling him to stay put.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Tony protests, but he remains sitting because actually, yeah, that does feel a lot better. “What’s with the science project?”

“I’m trying to figure out if there’s a way to rewire this so it can break through whatever’s interfering.”

Peter crouches, pointing as he explains his work. It’s not just the radio he’s taken apart but part of the plane’s internal intercom as well, and he hasn’t done a half bad job. Soon, Tony forgets about his pain, forgets even to worry about Peter—who seems to be moving around fine anyway—absorbed in the challenge of solving the puzzle.

He doesn’t even notice it’s starting to get dark until he finds himself squinting, not quite able to make out the finer parts of the machine. They manage to scrounge up a flashlight, but it’s small; they have to admit defeat until morning. They retreat back to the seating area, sinking into chairs across from each other. Peter finds more blankets and pillows and also, somehow, a bag of chips, two granola bars, a bottle of water, and a handful of berries in a paper bag.

“Where’d all this come from?” Tony asks, stomach rumbling as he pops open the chips.

“May packed the snacks,” Peter explains, gesturing at his backpack, crumpled and open a few seats away. It’s covered in mud. “I found it like a quarter of a mile out? It must’ve gotten sucked from the plane when that happened.” He points at the hole in the side of the jet. “The berries are also from out there; they were on a vine.”

Tony pushes the berries bag away. “That sounds like a recipe for an _Into the Wild_ situation.” When Peter stares at him blankly, clearly not getting the reference, Tony mimes chewing and then keeling over, poisoned. The performance earns a grin that makes Tony’s stomach flutter in a way that is completely undignified for a grown man.

“I don’t think so,” Peter assures him. “We did poisonous fruits in bio and they don’t have any of the signs? And they—smell okay?” His voice trails off a little, embarrassed in the way he gets when talking about how his powers make him different.

“Didn’t know sniffing out poisons was one of your skills.” Tony picks up a berry, observing it. It’s small and red, and looks delicious. _Very_ delicious, his hungry stomach suggests. Super, extra, haven’t-eaten-in-way-too-many-hours delicious. “Can you do drugs, too? You could put the whole K9 Unit out of business.”

“I dunno. I can just—I can tell when food’s bad.” Peter grabs a few of the berries and pops them in his mouth. “Besides, I had some a few hours ago, and I’m fine.”

Yep, sounds right. Caring about this kid is so much work. He’s too smart to be this stupid. “So what you’re telling me is that while I was passed out, you went wandering through the mystery forest for miles and ate a bunch of strange fruit, all with broken ribs?”

“It was only half a mile, max,” Peter defends. He sinks into his chair, stretching his legs out, propping his feet on the free seat next to Tony. His sneakers and jeans are covered with mud, matching the backpack. Tony should’ve noticed that earlier. “And I’m fine, and now we have food. Explain the problem?”

“You know what the problem is.” But he’s too tired to have this argument right now and besides, Peter’s right. Now they have food. It’s kind of hard to argue with that. He tries the berries; tart and refreshing, they’re the best thing to happen all day. Not that he gives Peter the satisfaction of telling him that.

***

By the time they’re done eating it’s become painfully clear that their thin blankets aren’t going to do a lot against the cold seeping in through the hole in the hull. They discuss starting a fire, but neither are up on their Boy Scout skills, and Peter has a vague theory that fire might attract animals. “And it’ll _definitely_ attract more mosquitos,” he adds miserably, swatting at his arm. If there’s one lesson they’ve taken from this misadventure, it’s that biting bugs seem particularly drawn to Peter’s blood, which, as he puts it, “Is just great. Really awesome. Best. Superpower. Ever.”

They make do with covering the hole with giant leaves that Peter pulls in from outside. Tony gets up with the intention of helping, then discreetly drops that plan in favor of searching for the booze he knows is stowed away somewhere. Shuffling around the plane his body can handle, barely. Lifting heavy tree branches not so much, but he doesn’t want to draw attention to that fact. He’s already caught Peter shooting him concerned looks a few times over the last few hours, and he’s not about to encourage it. That’s not the direction that particular emotion is supposed to flow; he’s the one that does the worrying, not the other way around.

By the time Peter finishes patching the hole, which helps with the cold a little, Tony is several shots deep into a bottle of whisky, which helps with the cold a lot. “Nature’s own blanket?” he offers as Peter slides back into his seat.

Peter shakes his head, pushing the bottle away. “I’m not twenty-one.”

Yep. That is true. That is a true fact. Good reminder there, kiddo. He should definitely remember that. Not twenty-one. Definitely too young for Tony to be so painfully aware that his feet are back on the seat next to him, only inches away. Definitely, definitely, _very_ definitely too young for Tony to let his hand drop to that ankle, squeezing. “Since when do you follow rules, Mr. Parker?”

The plane is shrouded in darkness now that the hole is covered, but Peter has set up the flashlight on one of the other chairs. It casts a dim light across them, enough to make out how his eyes drop to Tony’s hand. “I always follow the rules, Mr. Stark. Unless I think they’re dumb.”

Their eyes meet, and for a second, Tony wonders if that’s supposed to be a line. No, probably wishful thinking. Kid isn’t that smooth.

Also—wait. Doesn’t matter if it is. Wishful thinking is the wrong way to put that. Right. They just went over this. Not even old enough to drink. Tony raises the bottle. “To not following dumb rules. Something we have in common.” The burn on the way down is familiar: the taste of bad ideas. He moves his hand from Peter’s leg before it starts taking instructions from the stupid side of his brain. “So what now, Mr. Goody Two-Shoes?”

They probably should go to sleep, but Tony isn’t really feeling it. When he closes his eyes the world spins, and besides, he likes spending time with Peter. That was the whole point of this trip, to have a nice time together. No reason to let a life-threatening disaster get in the way of that.

Peter seems to take the question seriously, contemplating their options. “Um…want to play truth or dare?”

Oh god. That’s a terrible idea. On so many levels. On like, every level. “I am not playing truth or dare with you.”

“Come on.” Peter nudges Tony’s side with his shoe. “Why not?”

Because every dare he can think of is so, so not age appropriate. Because every question that comes to mind really should not be asked. Because he’s already getting beyond tipsy, though at least not enough to say any of that out loud.

“Because unlike some people in this plane, I am not in high school,” he offers instead. “Plus, all the good dares require functioning bodies, which neither of us really have right now. Well, functioning bodies or a willingness to drink alcohol, but that would be unfairly one-sided.”

“Just truth, then?”

“Pete, I think that’s called a conversation.”

Peter considers that answer, pausing before replying, slowly, “Yeah, that could be a conversation. But you don’t normally talk to me about adult stuff.”

“I don’t?” Tony asks, surprised. He honestly doesn’t think that’s true. He’s basically given the kid full access to his labs. What more does he want? “I don’t even talk to most adults about nanotech and new chemical compounds, let alone take their advice.”

Peter smiles, ducking his head a little. If the lights were higher, it would probably be clear he’s blushing. He’s always so cute when Tony compliments him. Which is a bad thought to have. “Okay, yeah, you talk to me about that stuff. But not like…I don’t know, _real_ stuff. Truth or dare stuff.”

Tony hopes the lights are at least high enough that Peter can make out the disbelief on his face. “I’m pretty sure that’s a contradiction in terms.”

“I just mean like—thoughts about the world. Feelings. You know, the kind of things you talk to friends about.” Peter toys with the hem of his t-shirt. “Sorry, that’s probably stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” Tony puts his hand back on his ankle. As a show of reassurance. It’s okay if it’s reassurance. “You’re probably right. Opening up isn’t exactly one of my strengths. Just ask Pepper. Or don’t, actually, which is kind of my point.” Why is he suddenly bringing up his ex-fiancée? That’s a classic flirting move: remind them you’re available. Abort, abort. New direction. “But if I’m going to keep being your oh-so-wise mentor, I guess it’s only fair I try the sharing thing on for size. So, hit me, kid. What do you want to know?”

He expects Peter to be startled by the offer, to need to think it over. He expects a question like, _How was MIT?_ Or maybe, more dangerously, _When did you lose your virginity_? What he does not expect is for Peter to jump into the deep end soon as he’s given the opening. But he does, because he’s Peter.

“What was it like when you were kidnapped?” he asks without missing a beat.

“Starting off easy, huh?” Tony jokes, to cover his surprise. But actually, this is safer territory than where Tony was veering a second ago. And honestly, it’s probably not a bad thing to tell him about. The emotional side of superhero mentoring is not something Tony’s been particularly good at—especially since, well, _since_ —but it is part of the job, theoretically. Smart question, really.

And so Tony answers, looking into his hands, hit with an odd shyness. He’s not quite sure how Peter will take the truth, but he talks anyway, forcing the words out, one after another. Talks about the cold fear of waking up in that cave, body no longer his own. About being sure he would die, but deciding to say fuck that and find a way out anyway. About Yinsen. That surprises himself. He doesn’t talk about him often, but the memory of the man, his soft voice and kind eyes, comes back as sharp as if it were yesterday, and he can’t help but share, pouring his regret into the air, trusting Peter’s silence is sympathetic.

He looks back up when he’s done. “That enough truth for you, kid?”

“I didn’t know,” Peter says quietly, staring at him in wonder. Reverent, as if any of what Tony just told him is worth admiring. As if he missed the part where he led a man to his death. Where all of it was his fault, his worst moment growing out of seeds he sowed. “I—I had no idea.”

“I try not to dwell.” Those eyes are still filled with admiration, and he wants it to stop. He likes it too much, hates himself for liking something that’s so undeserved. “So, what about you? Do I get a deep dark secret in return?”

He doesn’t expect a yes, but to his surprise, Peter is ready with an answer to that, too. “I never told you this, but that night when I stopped the Vulture—I almost died.”

Tony’s heart jumps to his throat; he lets out a strangled kind of noise that Peter doesn’t hear or—more likely—kindly elects to ignore. Instead, he launches into a story that makes Tony want to have a retroactive heart attack, even though he can see Peter sitting right here, safe and relatively sound.

“A building,” he repeats when Peter stops talking. “A building fell on you. And you weren’t even wearing your suit.”

“Now you know why a few broken ribs didn’t seem like a big deal.”

Yeah, now he knows that. He knows something else, too: all of Peter’s worst moments are Tony’s failures. Throwing him into Germany unprepared. Taking away his suit so he was left to fight someone _Tony_ pissed off, unprotected and alone. And— _and_. And that, too.

Tony takes another swig from the bottle. Better. Kind of.

“Do you ever think you drink too much?” Peter asks.

“Wow, bold.” Peter shrugs, tilting his head in a challenge. Which, yeah, fair enough. They’re there, right now. Not permanently. But in this moment—after the stories they’ve told, with the darkness surrounding them, the surreal stillness of the night, how drunk Tony is feeling? Yeah, in this moment, it’s a fair question. “Of course I drink too much. This is a known character flaw. How did you not know that? Don’t tell me you never googled my wild days.”

And, yep, that is another thing he should not have said. Because googling his wild days is pretty much guaranteed to bring up one especially wild video. Which he really should have had scrubbed from the internet by now, except that, honestly, his ass looks so good in it he likes having it out there. Reminds him of better days, ass-wise. But now he’s thinking about whether or not Peter Parker has ever seen that particular video, and if he has, why, and how often, and if he also thinks Tony’s ass looks good and—yeah, should’ve scrubbed it.

It takes him a moment to realize that Peter is answering the question in the affirmative, glancing at his lap in a way that probably means he _has_ seen the video. Great. But Peter pushes past that, voice going firm and determined, serious. “That was a long time ago. I feel like you didn’t used to drink this much when I knew you. Before.”

 _Before_. Tony doesn’t have to ask before what. They haven’t talked about it. Tony never talks about it, with anyone. He makes a humming acknowledgment of Peter’s point, but doesn’t say anything.

“Is that—is that why?” Peter’s voice trembles with a barely suppressed emotion that is far too familiar. Fear and loss, so desperately all-consuming it’s impossible to put a name to. How do you put a name to disappearing into dust, to watching someone disappear in your arms? “Is that why you drink more?”

Tony squeezes his ankle again, and Peter sighs, closing his eyes. As if that touch means something to him. Bad, very bad. “Don’t worry about me, kid.”

“I’m not worried,” Peter says, eyes still closed. He shifts in his seat, until the bottom of his leg presses flush against Tony’s thigh. “I’m—I guess I’m asking if you think about it, too. Because I think about it all the time, sir. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Damn it. Now they’re talking about it. Tony had been trying so hard to avoid going down the other road, he hadn’t seen this one coming. In retrospect, this was an easy trap to fall into.

“Yeah, sometimes I think about it.” It’s almost the truth. The real answer is barely ever, but only because he spends so much energy avoiding it, dodging every thought that could take him here. He could hardly even process the end of his relationship with Pepper, it was so bound up with that time, those losses. They still hurt, cutting little scars across his heart even now that they’ve been reversed.

One loss in particular still looms brightest, unfixable. More than a scar, it’s left a hollow scoop in his core filled with panic, ever-present fear that it’s all going to be taken away again.

His chest tightens and nope, _nope_ , not doing this. He can’t do this. He scrambles for air, sucking in deeply. His bruised ribs hurt as his lungs expand, his vision blurs with pained tears.

It takes him a few moments to realize he’s clutching the seat handle so hard the metal cuts into his skin; a few moments after that he registers that his other hand is clinging to Peter’s arm, that Peter is next to him, face pressed into his hair, whispering that it’s okay, that he’s got him, he’s here, he’s safe. When did that happen? How did that happen?

“I’m okay,” he insists, even though it’s ridiculous. He’s obviously not. “Kid, I’m fine.”

“Are not,” Peter mutters against his head. He’s right. Tony literally cannot convince his fingers to let go of the chair. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m not okay, either.”

That does not make Tony feel better.

He turns his head, just enough to let their foreheads touch. “I wanted to protect you, Pete. You’re just about the only thing I have left that I haven’t completely screwed up. Except I did, didn’t I? I screwed that up in the biggest way possible.”

Peter laughs, disbelieving, choked in a way that might include tears. “You didn’t,” he insists, and his free hand comes to Tony’s hair. Stroking it, fingers moving urgently, scratching comforting patterns against his scalp. “You did the opposite. You got me back, you got us all back, you _saved my life_. When I wake up from dreaming about Titan, you’re the first thing I think about. You’re here, and that means I’m okay, we’re all okay, it’s all going to be okay.”

“Pete, I—”

Fuck. He’s out. He has nothing to say to that. Too much truth, all in one place. Too much pain in that voice, as if that isn’t all the proof he needs of how badly he failed. Tears sting at his eyes and no matter how hard he blinks he can’t quite hold them back. He hopes Peter is too close to notice, but of course that’s not how that works. Not only does he notice, but he does something about it, the worst possible thing: he places a gentle kiss on one cheek, then the other, catching the tears as they fall.

The gesture is ridiculous. Sentimental. Borderline juvenile. And yet Tony’s throat tightens, overwhelmed with how _safe_ it makes him feel. How protected.

He’s _not_ the one who’s supposed to be protected. They’ve already been over this. Well, he has. In his head.

But when Peter moves from his cheeks to his lips, Tony can’t do anything but kiss him back, sob dying in his chest, panic falling away into calm. He shouldn’t. He _shouldn’t_.

Except that, in that moment, it’s the only thing in the world that feels right.

***

Tony’s not sure how long they kiss for. Long enough that Peter crawls into his lap, careful not to put weight on his bruised body, sitting up on his knees so that he hovers over him. Tony’s hands find his back, run up the strong muscles under his shirt, disappear into his hair. He tastes like berries and the salt of potato chips, smells like leaves and fresh rain, sounds like Peter, but a Peter who’s lost in pleasure, whimpering softly against Tony’s mouth. 

However long it is, it’s long enough that Tony gets dizzy, the half a bottle of whiskey catching up to him. Maybe the fall, too. Probably that. That wasn’t great, in retrospect.

With a reluctance born of lust and longing and most of all a deadening sense that when they wake up tomorrow they’re going to have to pretend this didn’t happen, Tony pushes Peter away.

“I, um. I think that’s as much as I can handle right now, champ.” He waves a hand down his body and makes an exaggerated wince. It apparently gets the point across, because Peter stops without arguing. He slips away in an elegant motion—he always does move gracefully, even when everything else about him is awkward—settling into the seat next to Tony, grabbing his blanket from the other chair and pulling it over both of them. As if it’s already been decided they’re sleeping like this, next to each other. Well, maybe it has.

Exhausted, drained, overwhelmed, Tony doesn’t have it in him to protest, not even when Peter nestles down, resting his head against his shoulder. Or when he grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together with a content sigh.

Tomorrow. He’ll worry about things like that tomorrow.

***

When tomorrow rolls around, he wakes up to the sound of rain beating against the top of the jet in loud staccato bursts, and an empty chair beside him.

“Peter?” he calls out in panic. If the kid got lost in the rainforest in the middle of a storm—

Before the downward spiral can kick in, he hears a chipper voice call, “In here, Mr. Stark!”

A few complaining joints, a close call with vomiting, and a painful walk down the plane’s aisle later, he finds Peter bent over the radio, which is talking. The radio is talking. Wait, that’s Rhodey’s voice. Rhodey is talking to them. Through the radio.

“You got it working?” Tony asks, astonished. Peter beams at him, nodding.

“Is that Tony? Tones, why is the kid doing all the hard work for you?”

“He didn’t wake me up,” Tony replies, dazed. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” he mouths at Peter, who gestures at the radio with a wide grin, as if to say, _Why bother?_ Tony isn’t sure whether he should be proud or insulted, and if he’s being totally honest mostly he’s just turned on, which doesn’t really go well with the amount of pain he’s in. His body is very confused.

“Turns out the Bermuda Triangle is real,” Rhodey is explaining. “But Fury knows how to handle it. I’ll be there with a team in about an hour.”

The radio cuts off, and suddenly he’s alone in the cockpit with Peter Parker, who he most definitely made out with last night.

 _Made out with_. What a phrase. This whole thing is turning him into a teenager.

“I think this is the part where I tell you we need to talk,” he says, leaning against the control board. His head hurts. His stomach hurts. It’s too bright. Hangovers suck, and he doesn’t normally drink half a bottle on quite so little food these days. Mostly because F.R.I.D.A.Y. is programmed to order him pizza every twelve hours if he hasn’t eaten, which is a prime example of why he shouldn’t be kissing anyone, let alone an awe-struck teenager who might not be smart enough to realize quite what a disaster that makes him. “So: we need to talk.”

Peter sets his face in a determined line, squaring his shoulders. “Counter proposal: we go back to making out until the team gets here.”

Tony chuckles, which hurts, muscles protesting at being made to move. “I like the way you think, Parker, but I’m trying to be the responsible adult here.”

“Yeah?” Peter looks meaningfully at the control panel. “Between the two of us, who’s the one who’s hungover, and who’s the one who fixed the radio and got us rescued?”

“Okay, fair point.” But not _the_ point. Missing the point. Getting at it, though, in a roundabout way. If only Tony can make his head stop pounding long enough to put the words together in a comprehensible order. “But that’s what I’m trying to say. Me, grown man. Mess. Bad. You, Peter Parker. Amazing. The amazing Spider-Man. The very god damn best. Get it? Me, bad. You, good. Us, bad idea.”

“Are you _trying_ to sound like that really old movie _Tarzan_ , or…?”

Tony tries to roll his eyes, but it makes his stomach churn. “One day, Mr. I’m Too Young to Drink, you’re going to learn the joys of a hangover. And you will look back on this moment and think, ‘Wow, Tony had so much to drink that night, and so little food, and also dropped several hundred feet out of the sky, and I was really very mean to him, that was quite unfair.’” Wait, he’s losing the thread. “Please see the aforementioned point about being a mess.”

Peter tilts his head, observing Tony. Observing him for too long. He can see him starting to form ideas, and there’s no way any idea he’s getting in this moment is good. “If I try to kiss you right now, are you going to throw up?”

“Maybe,” Tony replies, a little because it’s true, but mostly because it seems like Peter missed the whole point of his little speech. Okay, speech is too generous. Ramble. “Also, it seems like you’re not getting the part where I’m telling you we shouldn’t do that again.”

“Yeah, about that.” Peter springs across the distance between them, landing inches away. What a disorienting trick. “Remember what I said last night about stupid rules?”

“This isn’t about rules, Peter.” Peter draws back a little at the use of his full name. Yeah, that’s right. Serious time. “This isn’t about some abstract idea that you’re too young. This is me saying this will not be good for you. _I_ am not good for you.”

“Oh, well in that case.” Peter steps back, as if he’s about to draw away, but then smirks and leans forward, stealing a kiss, quick and sweet. “Stupid opinions are even easier to ignore.”

Then suddenly, in a twist Tony did not see coming, he’s shoving Tony back into the pilot’s seat, just like the day before.

“You, stay here,” he instructs. “I have another water bottle and a banana, I’ll be right back.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Tony demands, stupid dumb hungover brain trying to follow the last thirty seconds or so. “What just happened? What is currently happening?”

“You had so much to drink last night, and so little food, and also dropped several hundred feet out of the sky, and I’m told hangovers suck.” Peter flashes a mischievous grin that is just not fair. “If we were at home I’d cook you eggs or something, but since we’re here, water and a banana are what I’ve got.”

“And before that?” Tony brings his hand to his lips, where Peter’s had been only moments before. He can still feel the ghosting tingle of the touch.

The mischievous grin goes wider. “Isn’t that obvious? I just declared war on your stupid opinions. I’m pretty sure I’ll win in the end.” Peter turns and disappears into the other half of the plane, raising his voice as he adds, “Especially because Colonel Rhodes agreed to drop us off in the Bahamas before you woke up.”

Well, fuck. Of all the ways Tony thought this trip was a bad idea, tempting fate, this was exactly the problem he was prepared for. Except it turns out, he wasn’t prepared at all.

He sighs, leaning back in the chair. “Truth,” he says quietly to the empty room. “He is definitely going to win.”

**Author's Note:**

> Re-dated because it was originally anonymous for an exchange. Sorry if you've seen it before!
> 
> As always, feedback is loved. Kudos are amazing, and every comment makes my day :D


End file.
